Musings
by Elwen
Summary: A collection of stand alone short stories, scenes and some poetry (Chap 16 - Pip)
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer**

**I don't own Middle Earth or any of the people places or major events in it.  They all belong to JRR Tolkien.  I'm just borrowing them.**

**This is a collection of scenes and poems that are really too short to publish on their own.  Hopefully, the selection will grow with time.**

**Please enjoy and review, or not, as the mood takes you.**


	2. A Dear Friend Remembered

A DEAR FRIEND REMEMBERED

I thought I saw you, today.

In the grass, a book lay open.

I strolled through the orchard, air warm and sun dappled,

And I saw you there,

Eyes intent on the page.

I thought I saw you this morning.

On the hearth, kettle sang.

I remembered the scrubbed kitchen table, the teapot

And I saw you there,

Cup enfolded within your hands.

I thought I saw you this evening.

On your desk a pen had fallen.

I remembered the clutter of parchment and map.

And I saw you there,

Frowning down at your notes.

I thought I saw you tonight

As I stood 'neath the new Party Tree

I remembered the tables, the fireworks, the music.

And I saw you there,

Your face full of laughter and light.

I thought I saw you at sunset.

Copper sun touched the lands distant edge.

I remembered your tears as you stepped on the boat.

I saw you there and I wondered

Do you, sometimes, look back and see me?


	3. The Long Dark of Moria

MORIA

This place is dead.  My spirit strains to find some whisper of life but my questions echo loudly in the silence.  And yet something teases at the edges, stretching my senses to their limits, only to let them snap back, unsatisfied; the tendrils of my mind careening from infinite distance to foetal confinement.

Gimli rests his head upon the cold tomb of his sire's friend, his tears an echo of the ones I dam within myself.  My mind drifts again.

No tree offers to hold me; no star sings my name, calling me to harmony with their soaring melodies.  I feel the oppression of dark rock above me, the weight crushing my soul.  The stone is hard beneath my feet, unyielding, no grass to cradle my weary steps.  No brooks chatter, tumbling over shining pebbles, catching and playing with the twinkling lights of Elbereth above.  Here there is only the echoing steady drip of water, strained through the dense granite around me and pooling in deep holes, inky black.

There is no musk of moist loam, no sweet scent of crushed grass or perfume of flower drifting on a warm stray breeze. My nostrils itch with the fine dust drifting in the air disturbed by our passage.  It is laden with a metallic tang and something else.  My eye is pulled to the heaps of crumbling corpses scattered on the floor around us and my breath catches, trying not to draw too deeply of this foul miasma.  On our way here cold and sterile drafts flowed out at us from passages opening to left and right, like the frigid exhalation of death, its breath giving no refreshment to my skin or lungs.

Used to encompassing vast distances my vision has been limited to the confining circle of the dim light of Gandalf's staff.  Shadows crowded in about me, hiding unknown chasms and imagined vastness, inhabited by monsters long forgotten from childhood nightmares.  At least within this chamber a light filters dimly from high above us and my eyes at last discern walls and furnishings, all cracked and broken.  But still, beyond this room the darkness smothers all and I feel its presence waiting to enmesh me once more.

My mind screams in protest and I clench my teeth to stop the rising wail escaping from my lips.  For the sake of my companions I must endure.  It is only they who hold the lifeline to the tattered remnants of my sanity.  They at least, I can sense.

Aragorn is a solid presence at my side.  He, too, is fearful but not for himself.  He spoke of his forebodings for Gandalf before even we crossed the threshold of this darkling tomb and I know he strains to trace the first signs that his vision will arise to swallow our leader.  Many times over past years we have travelled as equals together, man and elf.  Unable to help me now he stays near, offering what support he can by his presence; letting me know that he understands my discomfort.  Anchored in the history of his sires, the light of his spirit burns strong and steady beside me.

Boromir has been ever hindmost of our company.  I often heard his heavy step behind me and felt grateful for his protection.  He speaks little and seems wrapped in his own thoughts.  Although there is great honour in him I know that the ring has already begun to thread his conscious thoughts with dreams of power and victory.  This proud son of the Steward has seen his future snatched away from him by a man rising out of legend and dream.  I sense the poison of the ring insinuating itself into his pride, and I fear that some day soon he will be lost to its siren call.  His spirit, once so powerful now turns sickly.

The Ring bearer stands with Gandalf, now, his eyes intent upon the book before them.  Frodo, of all the hobbits I think, is the only one aware of my difficulties.  There is a strong clear light within him, like sunlight through water but I can see the ring beginning to taint it.  The crystal turns cloudy with each step that he takes, closer to his doom and the doom of us all.  His friends seek always to place themselves around him, as though their soft bodies can shield him against the arrows that our enemy throws at him; seemingly unaware that the real threat is already within him.

Sam never strays from his masters' side.  When we stopped to rest yesterday I noticed him sifting a small pile of dust through his gardener's fingers and I wondered if he was trying to assess whether it held any potential for life.  His spirit glows strong and sure within him and, like Frodo, I grasp its firm steady light.

Even Pippins' bright spirit is dimmed in this deep place.  He tries to hide his fear with bright words that fly, brittle in our ears and I have watched him shiver, eyes open, as he lays sleepless in the night.  Merry cares for him always, and I can see Pippin relax when they walk side by side, sleeping more easily with the comforting presence of his cousin at his back.  Yet, fear tugs at them and I see their light burn bright and dim by turns.

Gimli knew my distress within hours.  I tried to hide it from him, unwilling to display such weakness before a dwarf, but we have travelled too far together for him not to guess the reason for my silence.  He steps surely in the ancient halls of his people, troubled only by the decay of what once was great.  Many times, in these past days, he has distracted me by pointing out delicate carving at the base of pillars whose tops stretch into the gloom above us; or naming the different marbles just visible in the mouldering dust beneath our feet.  I hold back tears of gratitude, surprised by the gentleness of a member of a race I have been trained to hate from the day of my birth.  He seems to draw his fierce proud spirit from the very rock around us.  He too, stands with Gandalf as the wizard reads aloud from the ruins of the book they have uncovered.  My tormented spirit will not let me concentrate on his words.

Our guide, Gandalf, pulls his spirit close, hiding it within grey veils.  In our journey through this brooding darkness I felt him, often send out questing beams of thought, searching for the route through this maze.  Sometimes his touch settled upon me, pushing gentle light and comfort into my quailing soul and for a moment the darkness that oppresses me was pushed back, then he moved on and I was bereft once more, floundering in dark meres of despair.

In Mirkwood, my father's home is a huge stone cavern but I cannot ever remember it feeling like this place.  There is a power here that stifles all my rational thoughts and rasps on my emotions like some huge iron file, leaving them raw and bleeding.    I must not give in to this insanity.  I have a duty to my comrades.  I reach out again, desperate to find the source of my distress.  Something slumbers in deep caverns.  I touch the edge of it's dreams and feel it stir to wakefulness.  My friends turn to leave, heading once more, back into the grim blackness that is Moria, but my feet will not obey my command to follow.  There is a great noise: a rolling Boom that seems to come from depths far below and to tremble in the stone at our feet.  A great horn is blown, an echoing blast that is answered by harsh cries further off.  At last my senses clear and the shadow that has clouded them for so long pulls back.  "Orcs."  I can hear the sound of their iron clad feet, smell their fetid stench and feel the mindless anger of their presence.   "They are coming!"

THE END


	4. Left Alone

LEFT ALONE

He can't leave without me.

Though friendship may prompt him.

He needs me.

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me.

Yet Gandalf is talking

I'll hide here

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me.

With this tall, grim, stranger.

Longshanks.

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me.

Where does she take him?

He's cold.

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me.

With strangers to guide him.

He's frightened.

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me.

Though dark waters threaten

I'll save him.

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me

Strong spear has pierced him

He's alive!

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me

With this bright lady

In moonlight

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me

I'm coming with you

He's crying

He can't leave.

He can't leave without me

In to that dark land

Hopeless

He can't leave.


	5. Gandalf

GANDALF

They sat in companionable silence.  Arwen bent over her embroidery frame, her nimble fingers threading the needle up and down through the black fabric, leaving a trail of silver in their wake.  Gandalf stared thoughtfully at the tangled skein of multi-coloured silks in his lap whilst, at their feet, a tiny black kitten pounced and batted at a stray leaf.

The wizard began to tease at a bright yellow thread at the edge of the mass.  It seemed to be largely unconnected with the rest but when he had worked at it for a few minutes he found that it dived into the centre of the labyrinth of strands and became lost.  Voices drifted across the lawn and he looked up, his eyes taking a moment to adjust.  Frodo and Sam were strolling along the edge of a flower bed, still bright with berried shrubs in late autumn.  One arm about his master's waist, Sam was pointing out the different colours with his other hand.  Frodo leaned in to his friend's support but his voice was light and clear and full of questions.  They disappeared around a corner and Gandalf returned to the problem in his lap.

So many different types of thread.  There were silks, in abundance, but also silver and gold, the gentle fuzz of wool and the soft matte of cotton.  All were so different and yet, when combined they could make a thing of great beauty.  They had to be put together in an ordered way, however.  The result of careless action was sitting beneath his calloused fingers.  His stomach grumbled in protest at not having eaten breakfast.  In an hour he would be sharing lunch with the Lord of Imladris and the wizard knew that the main topic of conversation was to be the selecting of the members of the Fellowship.  He looked down at a slight tug on his robe.  The kitten had abandoned its leaf in favour of a loose thread on the hem of wizard's mantle.  Gandalf smiled.  One more loose end amongst the rest.

A long loop of royal blue silk presented itself to his fingers.  Both ends were lost amongst the web of colours.  He finally managed to unravel it from a group of silver threads, which fell free in a separate knot in his hands, but for one that seemed determined to twine around it and be drawn into the complex knot at the centre of his problem.  Arwen's soft voice gently chided the tiny cat.  "Kizzy.  Don't play with that.  Here."  She tossed a small ball of grey wool to the tiny creature and it caught it mid-air, batting it towards the lawn and running after it, tail pointed skyward.

After half an hour of pulling, teasing and chasing ends Gandalf began to wonder why he had volunteered for the job.  He had been wandering across the terrace when he had seen Arwen struggling with the knot and knew that he could not just leave her to her trouble.  Was it a need to meddle in the affairs of others?  He had been accused of that before but he did not think so.  He had felt an overwhelming need to help.  It was a part of his being, like breathing and eating.  The noon bell brought him back from his reverie and his stomach growled.  

Arwen looked up from her work.  "My father will be waiting for you.  You had better leave that problem."  Her brows raised in surprise as she surveyed his work of the past hour.  Nearly half the threads had been smoothed and skeined, with only the most tightly knotted ball left.  "Thank you, Mithrandir.  I would not have believed it possible to rescue so much from that chaos."  He stood, setting the tangle on one side.  "With your permission, I shall return after lunch to continue the work."  Arwen smiled.  "You are always welcome, you know that."  The old man bent to kiss her forehead and then, taking up his staff, returned to the house.       


	6. And the Skies Looked On

AND THE SKIES LOOK ON

White clouds, scudding swift, 'cross a cobalt blue sky.

He sits 'neath an oak, book on knee.

Dwarves, dragons and elves float before his minds eye.

"Why does nothing strange happen to me?"

Grey clouds float, serene, 'cross a late autumn sky.

He stands on a balcony, lone.

Dark figures and pain in his memory lie.

"Now I'm safe. Leave it here and go home."

White sky, filled with mem'ry of late fallen snow

Rolls, unseen, to the Ringbearers' eye.

Deep in cavern, lead on by a staff's eerie glow.

"In this place will we battle and die?"

Bright stars glow, forlorn, in nights indigo throne.

He sits, once again, 'neath a tree.

Friend is dead.  Here's the test.  Can he do this alone?

"And this quest comes, at last, down to me."

Grey sky, still and sullen.  By river he stands.

Tears fall, soft, from his shimmering eye.

Gandalf's' voice, warm and sure.  Ring lies, cold, in his hand.

"I will go.

 I will try.

 Will I die?"


	7. The Song of Iluvatar Moria

THE SONG OF ILUVATAR

MORIA

A light breeze sent clouds scudding across the night sky, seeking in vain to hide bright Ithil and the stars of Elbereth, high above them.  The place was silent, but for the dark whispering of a stray breath of wind that eddied about the vale, teasing coldly at their cloaks: underscored by the distant howl of wargs and overlaid with Gandalf's voice, chanting at the doors.

His own heart sang quietly, subdued by the cold menace of the place.  Soon he would be asked to enter the dwarven realm of Moria.  Did Durin's folk still live there?  Legolas touched the ancient rock wall before him, straining to hear some measured drum of life beyond.  Nothing.  And yet he could hear Gimli's bold strong rhythm not far distant.  If there were dwarves within, should he not be able to hear them?  Perhaps the depth of cold granite beneath his palms choked off their song.  His long life contained no memory of such a place: he had no experience on which to call for aide.

All about him he could hear the music of his companions.  Aragorn and Boromir wove an ancient harmony of war and oath.  Gandalf's melody was strong and sure.  No note faltered but, as always, it was muted for he held his power leashed.  The hobbits formed their own quartet of song.  It rang merry and bright, although within it wove a counterpoint of fear and, somewhere below, he heard the dissonance of the Ring, now inextricably interwoven within Frodo's soul.  Legolas tore his mind away, as he found himself drawn down in to the cold metallic tones.

Slowly, as he sorted through the different harmonies, he began to find other music here.  He turned from the wall and tilted his head to listen again, sending out a questioning phrase of song.  From deep within the lake before him came a dark reply, but it was so quiet that he could not identify the opus that had birthed it.  It chanted dark want and hunger and Legolas drew back, shuddering at its icy discord.

Suddenly a soft, strong duet insinuated itself in to his heart.  It was ancient and carolled of sun and life and growth.  The wood elf followed the light theme and found himself standing before the gates once more.  His song spiralled up in relief as he stood between two ancient holly trees, their shapes distorted by abuse and age.  In his preoccupation with the dark of Moria he had not heard their soft melody: had thought them long dead.

Legolas stepped towards the twisted trunk of the nearest and reached out to stroke the warm wood, sighing with relief as he was accepted, and moved closer, to lean his full weight against the ancient sentinel.  Their symphony enfolded him.  Feeling his distress, they sought to sooth his anxious thoughts and wrapped him round with soft melody of comfort, as a mother singing lullaby to a fretful child.

He stood, enraptured, as their slow measure told of days long past, when the doors of Durin's halls stood wide to the world.  They sang of sunlight on many fair folk, elf and dwarf, passing to and fro between their welcoming and outstretched boughs.  Then the music slipped in to a melancholy minor as they intoned of darkness that had descended slowly, the slamming shut of the doors and the growing foulness of the deep lake that lapped in oily discord about the borders of their deep roots.  Now, for many turnings of the seasons, theirs had been but a two-part harmony.  No eldar came to share their song and tell of far off lands and great deeds.

Tears slipped from the prince's eyes and fell in silent homage to their lonely vigil.  He reached down within his soul and began to weave his symphony.  He sang of the sun on a thousand green leaves in the summer of his forest home and wove in the deep strong harmony he had found in Imladris.  Next, he blended in the light trill of bird song at evening; the delicate tones of wind swept gorse and heather from the mountain passes and drew a chord from each of his companions.  Carefully he orchestrated, setting counterpoint and harmony, melody and rhythm, until he was satisfied.  When all was arranged he offered it up to the ancient holly beneath his fingers.

His heart leapt as they accepted his creation; weaving in their own soft melody and pulling in the moon and stars to swell the music until it filled the wood elf's soul and would have swept him away, if the cold grate of stone on stone had not pulled him back.

And Durin's doors swung slowly open to swallow him in silence.                       

THE END


	8. The Song of Iluvatar Ithilian

ITHILIEN

Legolas could feel the wrongness of the place as he entered the clearing.  Something was in hideous pain.  Finally tracing the thread of agony he reached out, wrapping tendrils of comfort in soft melody and trying to soothe the raw hurt emanating from the ancient oak before him.

The orcs had taken a perverse delight in torturing it over a long period of time.  Legolas staggered under the weight of the images pouring in to his mind as he drew closer.  They had cut it first; leering as the fragrant sap bled from long slashes carved in to the bark.  Then they had moved on, pealing back strips to leave deep, open wounds down its side.  They never took enough to put it out of its misery, however.  Long shreds had been left at various places around the trunk to that it could not die, only endure.  It had endured their attentions for forty years.  Old wounds had healed but always there were fresh ones and with each new hurt its song faded, changed, faltered.

Tears flowed freely down the elven prince's face as he stood before the ruined giant.  It had been mighty and proud once: had sung its strong melody to countless generations of men, although they had not heard it.  Now it reached stunted branches to the sky in supplication for strength, whether it be strength to live or to die, it no longer cared.  All song was gone: the only sound it was capable of, the wailing exclamations of its pain.

Legolas waited for a moment; loath to set his hand upon the ravaged flesh for fear that the anguish emanating from it would overwhelm him.  Letting his own melody build within he searched for others to weave in to harmony.  Grass and flower, leaf and berry offered up their song to his questing mind and he drew them to him, binding them in healing rhapsody.  Taking one last step he leaned against the hurt, wrapping the scarred trunk within the circle of his arms and setting his cheek against the rough bark.  Tenderly, he offered up his song, directing it to fill the voids within the oak, entwining it around the weakened soul, strengthening, smoothing away the pain and bitterness.

Slowly, a new thread of song was added to the symphony, its bass tones forming a platform for the lighter notes of elf and glade.  Haltingly at first, the oak rejoined its neighbours, the music swelling as they drew it up, welcoming it back into their fellowship.

Legolas pulled away, his thread of song carefully un-entwining from the ecstasy of sound around him.  The elf danced lightly to the centre of the glade, threw wide his arms and spun around in undisguised delight, his eyes shining and hair gleaming gold in the sunlight.  Gimli stared in awe struck wonder as all about the clearing leaves unfurled on branches long thought dead, blossom filled the air with heady scents, flowers bloomed amid grass now lush and green, birds burst in to song and silver elven laughter floated on the sparkling morning air of Ithilien.

THE END


	9. Coming of Age

**Coming of Age.******

It was very late and Frodo stood at the open bedroom door.  Bilbo's special birthday waistcoat lay, abandoned, on the smooth bedspread, along with his fine velvet jacket, the quilted satin of its broad collar, glowing in the candlelight.  A fire burned, welcomingly in the grate.

Where would Bilbo be sleeping tonight?  Under the stars . . . or at an inn?  Bilbo was fond of his feather beds.  More likely an inn, then.  Frodo pressed the mattress of the big bed with one hand.  It yielded willingly.  He had slept in it only once………when he had first come to Bag End.  There had been a violent thunderstorm and he had sneaked in with his Uncle, feeling a little guilty to be so frightened as a tweenager.  Bilbo had said nothing, just hugged him close until he fell asleep.  Should this be his bedroom now, as the Master of Bag End?  He turned away and crossed to the armchair by the fire.  Perhaps it would, one day, but not now.  For the moment, this was still Bilbo's room.

An old pipe lay, discarded and forlorn, on the mantelpiece by a jar of pipe weed.  Old Toby.  The room smelled faintly of it………smelled of Bilbo……….Old Toby and lavender water.  A weight in his hand made the young hobbit glance down at the envelope he held.  He had forgotten he still had the ring.  Why had Bilbo left like that…just put the ring on and disappeared?  With no goodbye………unless you counted the one spoken across the noisy Party Field.

Frodo realised what had happened as soon as he vanished……….had tried to follow him, knowing that he would head for home.  But Gandalf's firework and the sudden public disappearance of his uncle had left a great many angry and upset hobbits and Frodo had found himself surrounded within moments.   He had only been able to watch over a sea of heads, helplessly, as Gandalf strode quickly back up the hill to Bag End.  It had taken the young hobbit what seemed like an age to extricate himself and when he had run into the hall, desperately calling his uncle's name, he had known at once that Bilbo was gone.  He couldn't say how he knew…he just did.  There was an echoing emptiness to the place that had never been there before.  Gandalf had been waiting of course…but he was not Bilbo.  

It hurt that Bilbo had not waited for him and yet, perhaps it was better that way.  It would have been a very tearful goodbye.

They had discussed his leaving, of course.  In fact, Bilbo had broached the subject for the first time in this very room.  The older hobbit had a bit of a cold and Frodo had insisted that he stay in bed for the day.  Then Frodo had sat in the armchair and they had talked for hours.  That was when his uncle had told him the full story of the finding of his ring…not the one about it having been a present, but the full tale.  He had even owned up to cheating in the riddle game with Gollum.  Frodo had been a little amused for it was clear that Bilbo was not proud of that moment.  His prowess at the riddle game had always been a source of satisfaction to him and it irked his uncle that his intellect had failed him on this occasion.  Bilbo and Frodo had spent the rest of that February afternoon exchanging riddles.  It was one of their favourite games.  Frodo sighed and tucked his feet up beneath him on the large chair.  There would be no more rainy afternoons spent in that pastime, now.

Bilbo had mentioned his leaving several times after that.  At first it had been merely an expression of longing…a desire to revisit the places of his infamous journey.  Then, over a period of time the 'maybe' had turned into 'when'.  Eventually, Bilbo had even suggested a time……….Frodo's coming of age.  But he had never actually sat his nephew down and told him that he would be leaving on a particular day at a particular time.  For his part, Frodo had tried to avoid even thinking about it…. a part of him believing that ignoring it would prevent it happening.  He was torn between a love of his home and a thirst for adventure.  Then the preparations for the grand party had gone into full swing and the topic had been conveniently forgotten in the bustle.  But now the party was over and Bilbo was gone.

Frodo's eyes wondered, aimlessly, about the familiar room, the flicker of the fire beginning to lull him towards sleep, although he fought it, still.  A candle burned low on the washstand in the corner, a damp towel thrown over the edge, where Bilbo had hurriedly washed before leaving.  

Frodo would have to heat his own wash water tomorrow morning.  After thirteen years they had fallen into a routine.  Bilbo would rise first, putting water on to heat, and bringing it to both their rooms.  Then Frodo would go to the kitchen and begin preparing first breakfast, while Bilbo opened any mail or tidied up a little.  Frodo would have to find a new routine now.  But he didn't want a new routine, he thought, blinking away tears.  He quite liked the old one.

Suddenly, he felt very small.  It was as though Bag End had swallowed him whole and he was not sure that he would ever be able to fill up its corners the way Bilbo did.  The smail had never felt too big when his uncle was around.  He seemed to permeate every nook and cranny.  At every turn there was something of him…a pipe, a scrap of paper with his spidery writing crawling across it, a jacket thrown across the back of a chair.  Then there were the noises.  Singing coming from the kitchen, the scratch of his pen in the study, the soft slap of his feet on the tiled floor of the hallway.

Frodo yawned, snuggling deeper into Bilbo's overstuffed armchair.  The night sounds of the smail stole into his ears: the creak of the round wooden doorway contracting in the cooling evening air, the snap of the fire in the hearth at his side and the tiny rustle of a mouse, somewhere behind the panelling in the hallway.  One sound was missing…. the soft snoring of his uncle.  For so many years, Frodo had been lulled to sleep by the companionable snores of his uncle, drifting through the wall to his bedroom; a buzzing lullaby, and now the smail felt silent.  It was like listening to a favourite piece of music but having some of the notes missing and it grated on his soul.

Even with Gandalf's comfortable sleeping presence stretched out on the parlour floor, wrapped in his cloak by the fire, Frodo felt very lonely.  No…. not just lonely …  abandoned.  It was a feeling he had not experienced for many years.  As a child, his parent's death had affected him that way.  They had died in an accident but, to his child's mind, they had abandoned him.  Then Bilbo had come along and Frodo's world had found an anchor once more.

The excitement of the day, the warmth of the fire and the comfort of the chair conspired against him and, even as the young hobbit considered where he would find an anchor now, his eyelids dropped and he fell into exhausted sleep, the envelope still held lightly in his hand.  

Surprisingly quiet for such a large person, Gandalf slipped in and tucked a quilt about Frodo's sleeping form, laying a hand upon his curls for a moment, before returning to the parlour.

Frodo stirred at the sound of his curtains being drawn, screwing up his face and turning away as the sunshine of a bright autumn morning pierced his eyelids…Bilbo?  He opened bleary eyes, the product of a little too much ale and not enough sleep, and tried to blink the world into focus, hearing the clink of a water jug being placed on the washstand.

"Good morning, Mr Frodo, Sir.  I wasn't sure whether you'd be wanting a wash or a bath in the mornings so I've just brought the jug, but it wont be no bother to go and heat more if you'd prefer a bath."

Frodo came fully alert.  "Sam?  What are you doing here?"

Sam crossed to the fire and began poking the embers back to life, looking up at Frodo from the hearth.  "Didn't Mr Bilbo tell you, sir?  He left instructions with the Gaffer that from today I was to come and help out in the house, as well as the garden."  His eyes opened wide.  "He gave me a year's wages in advance.   Although if I'm not to your suiting, Mr Frodo, I'll pay it back of course.  I aint never seen so much money all in the one place at the same time but it's set aside and you can have it back if you're not happy………." It was the longest speech he had ever heard Sam make and when his voice trailed off Frodo used the opportunity of the pause to laugh.

"Oh Sam.  I'm delighted.  I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have about the place.  How clever of Bilbo to think of it."  Dear Bilbo…He had known how empty Bag End would be.  Frodo pushed back the quilt (how had that got there?) setting his feet on the floor.  And found that he still held the envelope containing Bilbo's ring.  Stretching and giving a wide yawn, Frodo popped it on the mantelpiece.  He would find somewhere safe for it later.  

"You keep that money, Sam.  I think we'll suit just fine."  He crossed to Bilbo's washstand and poured some hot water into the bowl.  Turning in confusion as he heard a scuffle at the door.

"Well it's about time you woke up, cousin.  We were beginning to think you'd miss first and second breakfast," announced Merry, from where he lounged against the doorframe.

"If you don't want yours, can I have it?" asked Pippin from his side, a look of mock innocence on his cheeky face.

"What are you two doing here?" asked Frodo, in surprise.  "I thought most people had gone home last night.  Weren't you supposed to be leaving with friends?"

"Bilbo asked us to stay…Owwww" Pippin exclaimed, as his cousin kicked him.

"You didn't think you'd get rid of us that easily, did you?" asked Merry.  His face was smiling but his eyes looked deep into Frodo's and the Master of Bag End saw understanding, not amusement, in that gaze.  Then Merry spun Pippin around and shoved him out of the door.  "Come on Pip, lets see if we can eat our way through the contents of the breakfast table before Frodo manages to show his face."

Sam shook his head.  "Don't you worry, Mr Frodo.  Take as long as you like.  I'll make sure there's some left for you."  Then he left the room, closing the door, quietly, behind him.

Frodo paused as he picked up the lavender scented soap, listening to Sam whistling in the kitchen and Pippin and Merry trying to wheedle Gandalf into letting them have one of the unused fireworks from the party……… "Just one?"

The Master of Bag End looked about the room in the bright morning light and smiled, softly.   The smail did not feel too big today.  It was a much more comfortable fit…like a favourite overcoat.  "Thank you, Bilbo."

THE END.


	10. Beebo and the Bunny

BEEBO AND THE BUNNY

"Beebo!" the tiny tot squealed, delightedly as he threw himself into his uncle's arms, the squeal turning into a giggle as Bilbo scooped him up and swung him around. Drogo chuckled as he lowered the bags and Primula smiled delightedly.

"He's been impossible for the last half hour. As soon as he started to recognise the road he started calling for his uncle Beebo," she explained.

Bilbo tried to put the little hobbit down but Frodo threw his hands about his uncle's neck and refused to be parted, so in the end he was settled on Bilbo's hip and that was how they entered the kitchen.

"I've put you all in the big guest bedroom. Leave the bags in the hall. I'll help you with them after tea." The sight of food was about the only thing that would have parted Frodo from his uncle and he began to wriggle to be let down when he saw the contents of the kitchen table, one chubby little hand reaching towards a plate of still warm scones.

"Oh no you don't," Primula warned, catching the tiny fist before it could close about its target. "We need to clean you up first." With that she prised her pouting son loose and carried him away to their bedroom returning a little while later with Frodo toddling along at her side, his face and hands scrubbed pink. He was tugging determinedly at a large white bib fastened securely about his neck but when his eyes lit upon the table he reached out two little arms to be picked up and sat in his chair. 

It was Drogo who obliged, settling him in the chair that Bilbo had bought specially. It had been commissioned from a local carpenter and had it's own tray attached. Frodo loved and at the same time hated it. He was high enough up to be able to see everything clearly . . . and it was his own special chair. But he was also out of arms reach of the contents of the table and so unable to sneak items off it when the grown ups weren't looking. Primula took a seat next to her son and Drogo made to sit at the other side but jumped when Frodo yelled, "Nooooo. Beebo!" The little chap folded his arms and pouted as his father burst out laughing.

"It seems Frodo has decided on the seating arrangement." He gestured Bilbo to the seat he had just vacated, grinning broadly. He had no objection to Bilbo being the one to get strawberry jam tats in his hair for once. Bilbo brought the teapot and took the indicated chair, earning himself a crow of delight from the child, who turned big blue eyes upon him in eager anticipation.

"Cake, Beebo," he demanded brightly. Bilbo shot a questioning look at Primula and was answered by a slight shake of her head and a glance at the sandwich plate.

"Let's try a few sandwiches first, Frodo lad. Then you can have some scones before your cake."

The big blue eyes took on a determined look and pink, cupid bow lips clenched shut. "Cake."

Pretending that he had not seen or heard the last, Bilbo took up one of the small triangular sandwiches and took a bite. "Mmmmmmmm. Mushroom pate. My favourite," he murmured, with a wink at Primula. A little hand reached out, fingers stretching.

"Sanbidge," pleaded the tot.

Bilbo smiled, reaching for another and moving to set it on Frodo's tray but Primula stopped him.

"What is the word we always use, Frodo?" she asked pointedly. Frodo thought for a moment.

"Pease," he announced proudly.

"Clever boy," his mother beamed and Frodo clapped his hands in delight at the praise. Bilbo put the sandwich down on the tray and chubby little fingers caught it up immediately.

"Tank oo." Blue eyes lit up and Frodo took a bite out of the middle of the sandwich, leaving a line of mushroom pate either side of his mouth. The adults left him to it, content to clean him up at the end of the meal. 

Frodo was known for being a bit picky about his food but today there was no evidence of this. A cheese sandwich, a carrot stick, a cheese straw, a fruit scone, followed the mushroom sandwich, then a gingerbread hobbit, a bun and ending with a long awaited slice of cake. All washed down with a cup of cold milk.

"Slow down, sweetheart," Primula chided, pulling the cup away a little to emphasise her point. "You'll give yourself hiccups, gulping like that."

The little brow furrowed for a moment, dark eyebrows forming perfect s shapes, but he waited until his Mama let go and began to drink more slowly. When the last drop was gone and everyone sat back, contented, Drogo surveyed his son.

The contents of Frodo's tea could be read from the items smeared all over the bib. Unfortunately they were also visible on his hands and face. Drogo stood, with a rueful smile and lifted Frodo into his arms. 

"My turn, I think." The little hobbit nestled compliantly, curling a sticky fist in his father's hair and the two headed off to try and get Frodo relatively clean again while Bilbo and Primula cleared the table. A few minutes later however, a peel of giggles followed by Drogo's exasperated voice interrupted their work.

"Frodo! Come back here, you little terror. I haven't finished." With that, Frodo ran squealing into the kitchen, his father only steps behind him, facecloth in hand. Bilbo made a grab for the little tot but he squirmed out of reach and dived under the table, grubby face grinning up mischievously from his refuge.

All the elder hobbits ended up on hands and knees, trying to coax him out but the table was too big and without getting under with him, there was no way they could reach the cheeky mite. (A fact which Frodo worked out fairly quickly.) Every time one of them made a move towards him, Frodo backed away, giggling delightedly at the new game he had discovered. For some minutes they continued thus and Bilbo was beginning to edge the lad back towards Drogo when . . . 

"hic!" The giggle was halted in full flow and Frodo's blue eyes widened in alarm.

"hic!" The tiny chest jerked again and Frodo swallowed.

"hic!" His bottom lip began to quiver and his face crumpled.

"hic!" Tears sprang to his eyes and rolled down grubby cheeks as he scooted towards Primula.

"Mama!"

Primula scooped him into her arms and kissed his brow. "Awwwwww. Poor Poppet."

They sat in the parlour, the only sound for the present, Frodo's dying whimpers and the continuing tiny spasms of hiccups.

"Come on, Poppet. Try a sip of water." Primula patted the tiny back and offered the cup but Frodo only buried his head in her shoulder as his chest jerked again.

"hic!"

"Try, for Mama."

Tearful blue eyes gazed up at her and the dark curls bobbed. She put the cup to his lips and Frodo took a sip. Unfortunately, it coincided with a particularly strong hiccup and the water went down the wrong way, resulting in a coughing fit that deteriorated into more crying. Him Mama patted him on the back, shushing him until the tears subsided again.

"There's the key cure," Drogo offered cryptically. Primula looked up at her husband in disbelief.

"I thought that was an old wives tale."

"I don't know whether it works," Drogo admitted. "But it may be worth a try."

Primula continued to look sceptical as Bilbo left the room returning a moment later, brandishing the large key to Bag End. Frodo blinked, blue eyes staring up with some suspicion . . . trying to work out what was about to be done with it. He shrank down in his Mama's arms.

"It's alright, Poppet. We're just going to slip this down your back," his Mama volunteered. Another hiccup shook the little hobbit but he sat still while his Papa pulled back the neck of his shirt and popped the large key inside. It was cold and he squirmed, looking up in mild confusion. Then he turned accusingly on Bilbo, as he was shaken by three little hics in quick succession.

Primula tried to hide a smile. "Well, I think that confirms that . . . old wives tale." She pulled her child's shirt out of his trousers and retrieved the key, returning it with mock solemnity to Bilbo. Frodo's face began to crumple again as a fresh bout of hiccups shook his tiny frame.

"Hurts Mama."

All three older hobbits turned to stare in alarm but Primula's voice was calm.

"What hurts, Poppet?"

"hic . . . tummy." Frodo laid a tiny fist over his diaphragm, his bottom lip beginning to quiver a little.

"I'm sorry, Poppet." Primula slipped her hand under his and rubbed gently, sighing when she felt it contract with another hiccup. Tears began to slide down a tiny pink face and she cuddled him closer.

"There's the other cure," murmured Drogo in his wife's ear.

"What other one?" Primula asked.

"Sometimes you can S . . . H . . . O . . . C . . . K it out of people," he replied.

Primula continued to try and soothe their child, rubbing his tummy and rocking him.

"Are you sure that is a good idea?" Bilbo asked, worriedly. Frodo seemed scared enough already.

"No. It is not a good idea and we are not going to try it," announced Primula firmly, running fingers through the shock of brown curls that rested miserably against her shoulder.

Drogo stared at Bilbo in disbelief. "Drink out of the wrong side of the cup?"

Bilbo nodded. "It's always worked for me."

"I'm willing to give it a try, as long as it isn't going to S . . . C . . . A . . . R . . . E him," Primula declared in exasperation as Frodo's tiny body jerked again. 

Bilbo knelt down in front of the settee and held the cup out to his nephew with a smile. "Come on now, Frodo lad. It's only water. You have to drink it from the other side, though."

Frodo accepted the cup, looking from it to his uncle and back again in some confusion. Primula sighed and rescued it, handing it back to Bilbo. "He's a child, Bilbo. You have to show him."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Bilbo smiled at his little nephew. "You do it like this." He stood and bent over, almost double, placing his lips on the far rim of the cup and sipping the water carefully. Unfortunately he looked up, to see if Frodo was paying attention. The action closed his throat and instead of swallowing the water, he almost breathed it, the action causing him to cough and send the water up his nose.

Frodo giggled with delight, clapping chubby hands as his uncle blew water out of his nose, finding the whole thing very entertaining. He had never seen anyone do that before and he reached for the cup to try it for himself. Mama spoiled his fun, however and shook her head.

"hic!"

"hic!" The sad little bundle in Primula's lap whimpered again and she bent to kiss the curls on his crown. They had long since run out of remedies, both logical and illogical, and now all they could do was hope that the hiccups would fade of their own accord if they kept little Frodo warm and calm.

The sun was setting as Bilbo came up with one last idea. "Sometimes distraction helps get rid of them. Or so I've heard."

Frodo looked up, a worried expression on his face. He did not know what a distraction was but if it was anything like the incident with the key he didn't feel inclined to try it. Primula eyed Bilbo with some scepticism.

"I would have thought your water breathing trick was distraction enough and that didn't work." 

Bilbo smiled ruefully. "I was thinking of something gentler than that."

Primula hesitated a moment and then nodded. Bilbo reached out to Frodo, who also hesitated a moment and then let go of his Mama and allowed himself to be handed over to his favourite uncle, settling his tiny head against the shoulder that smelled of lavender and pipeweed.

"Come on Frodo. Let's you and I go and look at the garden." 

Primula and Drogo watched as Bilbo headed for the back door, with little Frodo cradled in his arms. The sun was quite low on the horizon and shadows were beginning to lengthen in the vegetable garden. Bilbo stood quite still, feeling every tiny jerk of his nephew's body. It was a sign of how upset he was that the little mite was content to rest there and was not squirming to be let down.

"This is my vegetable plot, Frodo. The Gaffer grows all kinds of vegetables for me here. Carrots and cabbages, potatoes and beans. Not many people have a plot as big or as well looked after as this."

"Plot," Frodo repeated quietly. It was a nice short word. Easy to learn.

"That's right, lad. Plot. Ahhhhhh . . . here's Bertie. I thought it was about time for him to wake up." Bilbo pointed across the vegetable plot to a patch of shadow under the hedge. "You have to be very quiet or you will scare Bertie bunny away. Bunnies are very scared of people. Hold your breath so that he won't hear you," he whispered. Frodo nodded, entranced by the little brown rabbit hopping about in his uncle's vegetable plot. The silence didn't last long, though. 

Unaware of the very still hobbits, Bertie hopped towards them and, excited at the prospect of Bertie coming closer, Frodo let out his breath with an explosive little shriek of delight. Bertie did a swift about turn and skittered back into the safety of the shadows to cries of, "Plot bunny! Plot bunny!"

Bilbo roared with laughter and turned back to Bag End with a wriggling Frodo.

"Oh no you don't! It's past your bedtime and I don't think Bertie is in the mood to play." He closed the kitchen door and let Frodo down. His nephew went straight to the door.

"Plot bunny, Beebo." A hiccup did not accompany the words.

Primula and Drogo stood at the entrance to the hall, their faces a picture of relief and Primula held out her arms. "Come on Frodo. Time for bed. You can go and visit the plot bunny tomorrow."

Frodo looked at the door longingly but finally ran to his Mama's arms.

"Say goodnight to Papa and Uncle Bilbo."

Drogo leaned close and Frodo planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek, then looked around. Little arms reached out and a wide grin graced the grubby, tearstained face. "Beebo!" Bilbo crossed the room and the tiny hobbit wrapped his arms about his uncle's neck and gave him a huge wet kiss. When he pulled away, still smiling, Bilbo's eyes were sparkling with unshed tears.

"Night night, Beebo."

"Good night and sleep tight, Frodo lad."

As Primula turned to leave Frodo's little face peeped over her shoulder. "Beebo take Frodo see plot bunny tomorrow?"

"Oh yes, Frodo. We'll see if we can find you some more plot bunnies tomorrow."

THE END.


	11. A Birthday Present

****

This story was written as a birthday present for the Frodo Healers group last October. I hope they will not be angry that I have given it a second outing here.

Disclaimer.

I don't own anything…. Other than my vivid imagination. I have borrowed from Tolkien the Shire, the characters and the timeframe and from Elijah Woods his endearing, gap toothed smile. I hope both will indulge me.

Frodo drew his cloak more closely about him and leaned back a little into the shelter of the porch of Bag End. It had been an unseasonably warm autumn day but, with the sinking of the sun, the temperature had dropped and now, in the full dark of a quiet night, it was growing cold. But Frodo did not want the temperature to chase him indoors just yet. That would make an end to the day and he was not ready for that, somehow. 

Through the half open front door the distant snores of his cousins could be heard dimly and he smiled as he swirled the remains of his wine in its glass. They did not normally make such nocturnal raspings but they had all consumed a little too much wine and Frodo suspected that Pippin and Merry would probably wake up with pounding headaches tomorrow morning. Sam had left an hour ago, after helping his master tidy up the parlour and, after he had blown out the candles, Frodo had come to sit on the little bench in the porch.

Down the hill, in Hobbiton, what few lights that were still burning in windows this late were slowly blinking out as their owners took to their beds and the piercingly bright autumn stars were coming into their full glory, liberally frosting the deep velvet sky.

Frodo wondered if Bilbo was looking at the same stars too, wherever he was. He smiled as a thought struck him. Knowing Bilbo's love of extravagant birthday parties he would probably still be celebrating well into the early hours of tomorrow and would find no time for such musings. There had been many times, as a tweenager, when Frodo had fallen asleep in a corner at one of their joint birthday festivities and awoken at dawn to find himself tenderly tucked up in bed.

Tiny bats flitted about the garden, trawling for the red eyed moths and other insects. The only indication of their presence was a flicker of black against the bright twinkle of the stars. Suddenly a larger shadow floated silently overhead and came to rest in the ancient apple tree. The owl tugged at a few feathers for a moment and then launched itself illusively into the night.

The apple tree would need pruning soon. One last harvest of apples and then Sam would come with ladder and shears to ensure that it was ready for winter. It's branches were more gnarled than they had been the first time that he saw it, all those years ago, but the shape was basically the same. Frodo could even pick out the exact branch he had tumbled from. There…on the left…only a few feet from the ground.

He set down his glass and examined the gold fob, on its chain, once more. It had arrived on his doorstep in a little wooden box this morning. There were no markings on the box to say where it had come from but Frodo had recognised it as soon as he opened it. Nestled in a wrap of velvet was his uncles gold watch fob and chain.

He held it now, feeling the worn smoothness of the metal. It was deeply engraved with a design of ivy leaves but its owner had thumbed it so much that the delicate lines had been worn away in places. Frodo touched his finger to a hidden spring and the little fob popped neatly in half. Inside were two tiny milk teeth. Frodo's tongue moved of its own volition to touch the small gap in his upper front teeth, where the second set had grown through without coming together properly.

Memory took him back to an autumn day many years ago.

OooOOOooo

It was his first visit to his uncle's smail and a very small Frodo was a little over awed. To be sure, Brandy Hall was extensive and had its share of grand things, but everything was shared and most of it had a battered, slightly faded, look. Bag End was different. Stepping through the bright green door, little Frodo had clung to his Mama's hand, his impossibly blue eyes, wide.

Exuberantly patterned rugs were scattered haphazardly about the highly polished floor and the dark wood panelling on the walls told of years of polishing…. Their surfaces exuding the rich smell of beeswax. A fancy brass chandelier hung inside the entrance, its cups set with freshly trimmed pale yellow candles, and carved chests and chairs interspersed the many doorways. Sunlight caught delicately carved crystal vases, sending a scattering of shifting rainbows about the space.

And in the centre of all this opulence stood Bilbo, no less a picture of elegance himself. Wearing black velvet trousers and a fine scarlet brocade waistcoat, hung with a thick gold watch chain, he looked every inch the Master of this fine smail and Frodo peeked at him nervously from behind a fold of his Mama's best skirt.

There were greetings, at which Frodo's Papa had pushed him forward to shake his uncle's hand and the little hobbit had complied warily, scooting back to the safety of his Mama when Bilbo reached down to ruffle his dark curls. Drogo was cross and Primula a little embarrassed but Bilbo only laughed softly and ushered them into the dining room for luncheon.

The food was lovely but poor little Frodo spent a great deal of the meal watching his Mama in order to decide which cutlery to use for each course. It was a great relief to him when everyone pushed back their chairs and he was shooed away to play in the garden while the grown ups sat down to talk. Frodo wondered what it was that grown ups thought to talk about so much.

He found the tree at once…its low branches begging to be climbed into. It took him several attempts and the skinning of one knee to work out the best route up the trunk but half an hour later he was sitting proudly astride one of the lower branches. There he sat; day dreaming of great adventures scaling mountains or exploring dark forests, for several hours. So wrapped up in his musings was he that he did not hear his Mama's first few calls.

It was only when Bilbo's voice was added, from much closer at hand, that the young hobbit realised that he was being called to the birthday tea. In his haste to climb down his foot slipped and he tumbled, head over heals, onto the grass below, his mouth landing hard upon his outstretched hand. For a moment he felt nothing but surprise and then he tasted the salt of blood in his mouth and, raising his head, saw the growing pool of blood covering his small hand. His first startled breath was exhaled as a loud howl and hot tears sprang from frightened eyes.

Bilbo was there in seconds, lifting Frodo gently to his feet and pulling the little one's hand away from his mouth to try and assess the damage but Frodo was having none of this stranger's attentions. Only his Mama would do and he tugged free and, still wailing loudly, ran to her waiting arms. No-one saw Bilbo stoop to pick up something from the grass and wrap it in his hanky.

When Primula finally managed to coax Frodo's hand away from the hurt the damage was immediately clear for all to see. The two upper front teeth were missing. Frodo's loud wails had brought Drogo running from the smail and he it was that scooped up his child and carried him to the parlour, laying him upon a couch by the fire. Bilbo brought a bowl of cold water and some cloths to staunch the blood but Frodo was only vaguely aware of him as Primula gently pressed the cold cloth to his gum.

As the pain and shock faded Frodo's sobs subsided into hiccups and, finally worn out with crying, he dozed off. His last conscious awareness was of his Mama's soft fingers combing through his hair.

When next he awoke he was lying in a very big bed; at least it seemed so to little Frodo. The bed was in a dark, wood panelled room, with a cheery fire dancing in the grate and long velvet curtains drawn across the window. Feather pillows cradled his aching head and down filled quilts were tucked about him, nesting him in warmth and softness.

Slowly, he blinked awake, searching for his Mama or Papa, but the only other person in the room was Bilbo. Frodo swallowed.

"Where's Mama?" His voice quavered, the words slightly slurred by the missing teeth and swollen gum.

Bilbo smiled, his brown eyes gentle. "It is very late, Frodo. I said I would sit with you while they slept for a few hours. They have sat at your bedside for most of the evening."

"Oh." A growing urgency made Frodo squirm a little and his uncle noticed at once.

"Are you uncomfortable, little one?"

Frodo thought for a moment. It was not the sort of thing one discussed with a stranger. But he really did need to take care of the matter soon and he was not sure when his parents would be returning.

"I am sorry, Uncle Bilbo but…but…. I need to…to go." He announced, turning a bright pink.

"Oh. I see." Bilbo replied, trying not to laugh at the lad's embarrassment. "That's alright, Frodo lad." He tugged one of the quilts off the bed, then pulled back the rest of the covers and wrapped Frodo in it. Picking the little bundle up easily he then carried him down the hallway to the indoor privy. Once there he set his charge down, untangled him from the quilt and waited outside the door while Frodo took care of what needed doing.

When the Frodo's came out, Bilbo bundled him up again and carried him back to his warm nest. The young hobbit found he rather liked being held in his Uncle's strong arms, his head resting against his silk clad shoulder. Bilbo smelled comfortably of pipe weed and lavender soap. Once back in his room, Bilbo had him settled back in his bed within moments and tucked in. The older hobbit crossed to the hearth, returning with a small cup.

"You had no supper, lad. Would you like some broth? It's not too hot."

Frodo accepted the cup in both his hands, inhaling the savoury smell of chicken and herbs. He sipped it gingerly, wincing when the warm liquid touched his torn gum. But the delicate taste of the broth outweighed the slight pain and soon he was drinking gratefully, his stomach growling in thanks. When the cup was empty Bilbo refilled it from a pot on the hearth.

"Feeling a little better, now?" Bilbo asked, settling back in his chair at the bedside.

"Yes, thank you." Actually it sounded more like, "Yeth…. Thank you." But Bilbo made no comment.

When the second cup was emptied Bilbo helped his nephew settle down again. "Do you think you could go back to sleep for a while? It is quite a way until dawn."

"I'm not really sleepy" Frodo announced automatically. It was the response he gave his parents every night. It did not work on them; they simply turned the light out and called goodnight. Perhaps it would work on Bilbo and he would let him stay awake a little longer.

"Alright. What would you like to do? I could tell you a story?" 

Frodo groaned, inwardly. When his Auntie Esmeralda told stories there was always some awful moral at the end. Doubtless Uncle Bilbo had one that warned of the dangers of climbing trees. Still, it was dark, so he could hardly go and play outside. He managed a weak smile.

"That would be nithe, Uncle."

"Well now. Let me see." Bilbo laid a finger down the side of his cheek as he thought and a twinkle filled his eyes. "Would you like to hear the tale of how I got to meet a wizard, some dwarves, some elves, trolls, giant spiders, talking birds, a dragon…oh, and then there was the great battle."

Frodo's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Yeth, pleathe, Uncle Bilbo."

"Well, it all began with me having a quiet smoke outside the door to Bag End…do stop me if you've heard the tale, wont you."

Frodo nodded, although he was quite sure he would find no need to halt his storyteller He actually fell asleep just before the meeting with the spiders and Bilbo blew out the candles and waited at the lad's bedside until Drogo crept in just before dawn.

For the rest of Frodo's visit he and Bilbo were inseparable. At every opportunity the little hobbit would curl up in his Uncle's lap and demand another instalment of the tale of his journey to the Lonely Mountain. That had been the beginning of a relationship that had deepened and grown over many years.

oooOOOooo

Frodo smiled and closed the fob once more. Dear Bilbo. He reclaimed his glass and lifted it to the stars in salute before downing the last mouthful.

"Happy birthday, Bilbo."

And somewhere in his imagination he heard a familiar voice replying,

"Happy birthday, Frodo my lad."

THE END.


	12. Hold

HOLD!

"Hold!" The word flies from his lips before I can even draw breath to shout it. And my men obey him without question. Who is this bedraggled man who can command elves, dwarves and men? This dirty youth who even has my sister daughter besotted. 

He bowed his knee to me outside the Hall but he does not talk to me as subject to king but as my equal. And yet . . . I find myself listening to him . . . as an equal. Oh, I tried to put him down once . . . but my head told me that there was some wisdom in his words, even as my pride spoke out. I look out upon the carapaced swarm of our enemy and see the truth in his warning now. This can only be described as "open war". And we are trapped here, outnumbered, under provisioned and with our best fighting force leagues away . . . unless Gandalf is able to keep his word. I doubt that he will. Even a wizard has some limitations . . . he cannot lift an army from one part of Middle-earth to another in the blink of an eye. No . . . we must make do with what we have.

Even there, Aragorn has had some influence. The Deeping wall now boasts a troop of elven archers. It is strange to see a lank haired, dirty young man commanding these tall, silent, folk as though he were one of them. And their leader, Haldir, accepts him as his commander . . . almost as he would a king. He has the air of a king . . . but of what is he king?

They tell me that he said he would die as one of us if necessary. I hope it will not come to that . . . but our enemy carpets the ground from cliff to cliff across the valley before us, lightening flaring off their wet armour. He has earned the respect of my men with that comment. He could have fled . . . I think the elf was considering it. But he stayed. And because he stayed, so did the elf and the dwarf. Do my people still trust me in the same way? I am no longer sure. 

His companions tell me that Aragorn lived in Rivendell for many years. That elven influence would give him a certain confidence in his manner . . . but there is something more . . . a fire that is not of the elves . . . they are all ice and glass. He has a passion about him and strength of soul that I lost long ago. Where did I lose that flame?

That is why Saruman and Grima found it so easy to overcome me I think. I have lost that passion. But it burns strong in him, even though he tries to hide it. He holds it in check, in deference to me . . . but. My son is gone . . . but my people will be safe in Aragorn's hands . . . if I should die here.

There is the roar . . . they come.

"Give them a volley!"

THE END


	13. Morning A drabble 100 words

One final cruel twist and nightmare cast him upon the beach of morning, shaking, slick with icy perspiration.

Honeysuckled air teased open the curtains, conjoining wantonly with warm bread and bacon to cleanse the attar of his dreams and his racing heart slowed to match the lazy courtship of dust motes in a finger of sunlight caressing his shoulder.

From the kitchen merry laughter, underscored by a soft chuckle, bound up the coarser shrieks of memory. He would bask a little longer then he must leave . . . before the pain of their love, his loss, grew unbearable.

END


	14. Fire & Ice A drabble of 100 words

I don't own LOTR…I wish I did. I don't make any profit from the use of same…I wish I did but I'd probably get thrown in jail. This is fanfic. And it's a bit AU.

It's also a drabble. A drabble is a self-contained work of 100 words.

FIRE AND ICE

Sharp edged agony of ice slicing through his soul. Calm voice beyond.

"I see it."

Pressure in his chest . . . probing . . . tugging. He shrieks his loss, suddenly bereft of pain . . . only proof of life for many days.

A gruff, familiar voice. "Is he awake?"

"Barely." A voice exhaling warm summer twilight. "Sleep, Frodo. You are safe."

Warm fingers stroke his brow, trailing comfort in their wake and he inhales deeply of athelas and roses. The rush of distant falls washes away final echoes of pain and consciousness, flooding his heart with peace.

END


	15. Dreams

I don't own any of the characters or the main events. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and I am forever grateful that he put his dream on paper. I hope he will forgive me for tinkering about on the borders of his great work.

Happy Birthday Frodo and Bilbo Baggins. Long may your love and sacrifice be remembered by new generations of readers.

This story was written partly in answer to a challenge to write an AU tale of Frodo at Helms Deep.

DREAMS

Bilbo closed his study door and reached up with the candlesnuffer to extinguish the hall chandelier. It was just as he put out the first flame that he heard Frodo's voice . . . a soft whimper. Lifting his own candle once more, Bilbo tiptoed to his nephew's bedroom door and listened more closely. He could hear Frodo murmuring and shifting in his bed, the murmurs growing clearer.

"No . . . there are too many . . . we will never win . . . too many . . . horrible . . . no . . . oh no . . . blood . . . blood everywhere . . . why? So many . . . so much death . . . no . . . no . . . No!" The last word was barely less than a scream and Bilbo almost dropped his candle in his hurry to get into the room.

Another scream met him as he all but fell through the door and he found Frodo fighting with covers that had entangled him as he thrashed in his dream. Finally managing to sit up, Frodo turned a wild face in the direction of the candle flame. Bilbo took a step forward and froze as the young lad began to scrabble backwards until he was pressed up against the headboard; eyes wide and his mouth beginning to stretch open around another scream. Before it could form, Bilbo spoke into the quivering silence.

"Frodo . . . Frodo lad. It's alright. It's just a dream." He deliberately kept his voice soft and low as he moved steadily towards the bed, bringing his little pool of light closer and closer, familiar words and the soft glow of the candle easing away the darkness.

Frodo's mouth closed and he swallowed hard, his face paling even further. Bilbo recognised the symptoms and rushed to slide a clean chamber pot onto the bed as his nephew doubled over and began retching. Hurriedly placing the candle on the bedside table, Bilbo supported him with an arm about the heaving shoulders and when the retching ceased, a little while later, Bilbo drew his nephew back to rest exhaustedly against his shoulder. The older hobbit produced his pocket-handkerchief and dabbed gently at Frodo's face.

"Let me get you some water to rinse your mouth. Do you think you've finished, or would you like me to bring another chamber pot?"

"'m alright, Bilbo. Don't need 'nother," Frodo murmured. His uncle arranged pillows behind him and hurried from the room with the used receptacle, deciding to bring a fresh one anyway. When he returned, with a clean pot, a jug of water and a cup, Frodo had drawn the covers up but was still shivering in his bed.

Settling the pot on the bed, within easy reach, Bilbo placed the water on the table and offered Frodo a cup. "Swill your mouth out lad and then just sip the rest slowly." Bilbo paused long enough to ensure that his nephew was following instructions, then turned away and began to stir the fire in the hearth, adding more wood. 

"There now, lad. That will be warmer." Bilbo perched on the edge of the bed, moving the chamber pot onto the floor but still within easy reach. He brought a hand to rest on his nephew's brow, relieved to find no fever and more than a little surprised when Frodo leaned into his touch. It had been a good few years since the lad had done that. Bilbo changed position so that he was sitting next to his nephew, and put his arm about his shoulders again, growing more worried when Frodo settled himself against him at once, his face almost buried in his uncle's waistcoat.

"Do you want to tell me about your nightmare?"

The dishevelled curls resting against his chest shook slowly. "No. Please. It's too awful."

A gentle hand soothed up and down Frodo's arm. "Sometimes it helps to get rid of the dream if you talk about it." His comment was met with no visible or audible response but he did not press, guessing that it would take the lad some time to marshal his thoughts and words.

"Bilbo . . . when . . . when you were at the Lonely Mountain, there . . . you said there was a . . . a battle."

Unsure of the direction of Frodo's thoughts, Bilbo tried to answer as best he could, although that particular event in his adventure was one he had no wish to recall too clearly. "Yes I was and a nasty bump on the head I got."

"What was it like? Not the getting hit on the head bit . . . the battle. Was . . . was it . . . very horrible?" 

Bilbo could feel his nephew shudder. Although the old hobbit had told the tale of his journey to and adventures at the Lonely Mountain many times, he had always skimmed over that part. He had no wish to recall the scenes of carnage that had been caused by simple greed, and certainly no wish to inflict such images on others.

"Yes lad. It was. Now do you want to tell me why you're asking that? It's not the sort of thing that should be filling the head of a youngster like you."

"I . . . I saw it . . . in my dream. But . . . for some reason . . . I felt as though . . . as though I were . . . responsible . . . in some way. They were all dying around me. Men and . . . and goblins . . . horrible goblins. They were huge and their blood . . . their blood . . . Bilbo . . . was black." The last word was accompanied by a sob and Frodo clutched his uncle more closely.

Bilbo's heart raced so fast that he was sure that Frodo's head must be moving with the beat of it. Stupid, stupid old hobbit, Bilbo chided himself. Some guardian you turned out to be. Going and giving the lad nightmares with your silly tales. 

He sought frantically for some image to turn the lad away from goblins and blood. He could not deny the events of his story and yet he had to soften it a little. The lad needed to see some light . . . light . . . elves.

"Yes, Frodo my lad. It was a frightening sight, and yet . . . the elves. Ah, now to see an elf fight . . . that is an amazing thing. They are so light and graceful that it becomes almost a dance . . . they are so nimble. Why I saw one . . ." Bilbo paused as the dark head leaned back to gaze up at him in confusion. 

"That's right . . . there were elves, weren't there?"

"Of course there were elves, lad. Tall and beautiful with fine bows, shining swords and long slender lances, flashing in the sunlight."

Frodo blinked, his voice taking on a distant, singsong tone. "His sword was long, his lance was keen, his shining helm afar was seen."

Bilbo smiled. "That's right. I see you've been paying attention to your studies. Yes . . . they were just like Gil-galad."

The bright blue eyes looked up at him once more. "But there were no elves in my dream . . . well . . . only one. And only one dwarf. The rest were men, tall and proud atop high stone walls and their long blond hair whipped by the cold wind. And . . . and goblins. Hundreds and hundreds of goblins . . . in armour as black as the night around them and harsh voices that grated upon my soul and made me want to turn and run." Frodo shivered once more and Bilbo drew him closer in the circle of his arms.

"It was only a dream lad. And anyway the men of Dale have dark hair and we fought on a mountainside, if you remember. Your mind took the silly tales of an old hobbit and spun a story of its own. Maybe you should stop eating cheese for your supper. It's obvious it doesn't sit right with you."

"But . . . why would I dream of such a battle, and so different from the one you always described. It was dreadful, Bilbo. The goblins wore heavy iron armour from head to toe, except for a large white hand painted on their chests. And they were so big. I had never imagined they were so huge."

"Hush, lad. Imagination plays strange tricks and goodness knows . . . you've a healthier imagination than most." He tried a smile but Frodo would not be turned aside. 

"It felt real. I was so frightened. And it wasn't like the storybook fights, where people get stabbed and fall over. It was horrible. The goblins were . . . they were hacking people's arms off and . . . and ripping open their bodies with thick bladed knives so that I could see their insides. I wasn't really there . . . but I was bound up in their doom . . . somehow. Those men . . . Bilbo . . . they knew it was hopeless, and yet they fought on for as long as they could. They were buying me time, I think. I do not understand it fully. How could I be responsible and yet not actually there, Bilbo?"

Bilbo halted the rising tremor in his nephew's voice by drawing him into a tight hug. "Hush now Frodo. It was only a dream." 

Only a dream? Like the other dreams Frodo sometimes had? Like the time he dreamed of Sam standing at his mother's grave, and the next day Bell Gamgee had keeled over dead . . . as sudden as you please. Or the time that the lad had dreamed of his parents' faces floating in water and two days later . . . Bilbo drew back from such reverie.

"It was only a dream, Frodo. Come on. Let's go and get you a glass of warm milk and then you can sit with me by the fire in the study until you feel calm enough to go back to sleep."

Surely this could not be one of those visions. How could his lad be involved in such carnage? Bilbo found himself fingering the gold ring in his pocket . . . evidence of his own unexpected adventure. But a glimpse of the tears still glistening in Frodo's eyes brought that hand away from the smooth metal at once, to fumble instead for his nephew's dressing gown.

"Thank you Bilbo." Frodo allowed his uncle to help him into the dressing gown and then lead him to the study. Once through the study door Bilbo felt the shoulders encircled by his arm relax at once. Here was the world Frodo was familiar with. Here were the pillars of his everyday life. 

A fire glowed in the hearth and candles dotted the mantle and various pieces of furniture. Frodo had often chided his uncle, for Bilbo had a frightening habit of piling up books and papers in unsteady towers and then standing a candle atop them. The lad was always worried that Bag End would go up in flames one night, but Bilbo prided himself on never having knocked over a single taper. The very air was filled with books . . . musty with the scent of paper, ink and leather bindings . . . of lavender soap and Old Toby. It smelled of home and was as far away from the sight and stench of battle and goblins as it was possible to get.

Bilbo fussed about him, seating him in a chair by the fire and draping a warm rug over his legs. It was comforting and Frodo tucked up his feet and leaned his head into the deep padding of the chair back, eyelids beginning to droop as he stared into the fire. Noting his nephew's relaxing features, Bilbo left for the kitchen to warm the promised milk. 

By the time he returned Frodo was deeply asleep in the chair and the old hobbit did not wake him, bringing in a quilt from his bed instead and wrapping it about the lad atop the blanket. It would do him no harm to sleep in a chair for one night. 

Watching the now peaceful face of his nephew, Bilbo lit his pipe. Frodo had always been an overly inquisitive lad. That was one of the reasons Bilbo had decided to adopt him . . . that and the fact that he was being overlooked far too often in that big warren called Brandy Hall. A brain like Frodo's needed to be stretched or it found ways of stretching itself, as was evinced by the fair number of scrapes the lad had got into over the years. 

It had been one of Bilbo's dreams that when he set off on his travels again, once Frodo was of age, he would persuade the lad to come with him. The younger hobbit showed a keen interest in the affairs of the world outside the Shire and was pleasant company on a long walk. It would be most enjoyable to retread the paths of his journey with Frodo at his side.

Esmeralda had tried to warn him that there was something slightly different and a little strange about Frodo but Bilbo had not understood the thrust of her comments at the time. Then Bilbo had found out about the dreams.

Frodo had told him about them one night, a few months after first coming to Bag End, when Bilbo had found him crying and upset . . . just as he had tonight. It seemed the lad had been plagued with visions of future events since before he could remember. Oh, there were the ordinary dreams of childhood but, once in a while, there were others. Bilbo had grown used to them over time and both now accepted them as being as much a part of Frodo as his wide blue eyes. And, until tonight, even those visions had not stalled his plans to ask his nephew to travel with him.

Frodo stirred in his chair and Bilbo held his breath, praying that the dream would not return and sighing when the lad settled once more. 

Suddenly, tonight, Bilbo no longer saw Frodo as a companion or nephew, but as a young hobbit who deserved a happy and carefree life. He had been looking at the relationship only from his own selfish standpoint . . . not seeing the lad as an independent soul with needs of his own. Now the thought that this kind and gentle heart, that had given itself so freely to Bilbo, may be hurt in any way was more than the old adventurer could face. If Bilbo took Frodo from the safety of the Shire would tonight's dark vision become reality? If Frodo stayed in the Shire would he be safe from it? 

Surely such an event could never happen here. What could possibly precipitate it and where did Frodo fit in? His fingers strayed to the ring. Now why did he keep doing that? It took a great deal of strength but Bilbo pulled his hand away and wrapped his fingers about the warm bowl of his pipe instead, taking one final draw of Old Toby. Then, straightening his shoulders and knocking his pipe out on the hearth, Bilbo blew the stem and bowl clear and set it upon the mantle. 

No . . . he would not ask Frodo to accompany him when he left the Shire. Bilbo would spend their remaining time together teaching Frodo to love his home and then perhaps, the lad would never stir beyond its borders after all. And tonight's dream would remain only a dream. Hobbits were not made for such terrible things and Bilbo intended to protect his nephew from them if he possibly could. Even if it meant giving up his own dream to stop the other from being fulfilled.

He rose from his chair and paused to settle a small kiss upon Frodo's brow before turning to his desk to continue his writing. He would sit up tonight in case the dream returned.

END


	16. Puddles

I don't own Middle-earth. It belongs to JRR Tolkien and I'm jealous.

PUDDLES

Pippin tossed the stone as far as he could, the plunk of it's landing lost in the sound of breakers on the shore beyond the harbour. He looked at the tall white ship and wondered how deep the water needed to be to accommodate it. Much deeper than the Brandywine, he reckoned. He started as a hand landed on his shoulder and Frodo's whisper came in his ear.

"Careful cousin. Remember what happened last time you threw a stone into a puddle." There was a small smile on Frodo's lips but a sparkle of tears in those large blue eyes and Pippin felt very small, despite the fact that he was now looking down at his cousin. Frodo grunted as he was suddenly enveloped in a huge hug but it took only a split second for him to return it.

When he could recover his breath enough to speak, Frodo turned his cheek to rest upon Pip's chest and they both looked out at the wide grey expanse of water. 

"Do you remember when we used to jump puddles, Pippin?"

Pip sniffed and blinked away one of the tears that rolled, unchecked, down his cheeks. "You always found the biggest ones and I was so small. That was mean of you, you know? You always cleared them and I always ended up wet." He glanced down at the dark curls resting against him. "But this is no puddle, Frodo. However tall I grow I will never be able to jump this one."

Frodo patted his cousin's chest gently. "Learning that there are some things that are just too big for you is an important lesson in life. I had hoped that you would learn it young, while the only harm you could come to would be splashed breeches."

Pippin snorted. "You didn't have to go back and face Pervinca. I'm sure that's why I was so small when I was younger. I spent so much time in hot baths that as fast as I grew inches Pervinca scrubbed them off." 

Leaning away from him, Frodo looked up into those green-gold eyes. "Well, I think Treebeard took care of that for you. But there's more to growing up than inches, you know." Frodo turned back to the shifting water before them. "I'm just sorry that you had to grow up too soon. That was one puddle I shouldn't have led you into."

The arms wrapped about him grew tighter. "It was no-one's fault, Frodo. And you didn't lead me into it . . . I chose to come with you . . . we all did."

"Why did you come with me, Pip?"

The chest beneath his ear began to shake and Frodo heard his cousin's light giggle bubble up for Pippin's bright soul could not be restrained too long in tears. "Because I love you, you silly goose." Strong hands pushed Frodo away and they faced each other square on. "And that's also why I'm letting you go without me now instead of begging you to stay."

For the first time in what seemed like an age, Pippin saw pale lips curl upwards and there was a flash of the old Frodo in those azure eyes. One, three-fingered hand came to rest upon Pip's shoulder.

"You don't need to jump this puddle, Pip. You've learned to take your own path and for that, at least, I'm glad. Have a full and happy life, cousin. And teach your children to jump puddles while they are still young enough to run home to their mama and a hot bath."

With one final, quick embrace, Frodo turned and Pippin stood still, watching him walk away.

THE END


End file.
